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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28518678">secondhand nostalgia ( or: prides never attended )</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraf/pseuds/seraf'>seraf</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>&lt;3, ? ish?, Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Bisexual Character, Character Study, Drag Queens, F/F, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Frank discussion of sexuality, Holding Hands, Implied/Referenced AIDS, Internalized Homophobia, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Other, Past Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Past Relationship(s), Physical Disability, Pre-Canon, Pride, Pride Parades, Season 1 Magnus Institute Archival Staff, Some Spoilers, Trans Female Character, Trans Georgie Barker, Trans Martin Blackwood, Trans Sasha James, canon bi characTERS!!!! we stan, he's not quite sure if that's it, its a progression of time so. waves hand vaguely, more tags to be added as chapters are!, when i say past jongeorgie i mean. one of the drabbles is Actively jongeorgie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:08:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,770</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28518678</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraf/pseuds/seraf</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>part of the point of pride has always been to be seen. to be witnessed. even if one isn't participating, or can't be as active - isn't it important, both to the watcher and the watched, that moment of visibility? even if it's just a secondhand memory of someone else's celebration of identity - doesn't that mean something in the end? isn't that the point? memories can still be fond, even if they weren't quite your moment.</p><p>jonathan sims, and prides he never quite took part in. for week 1 of jonsimsbipride: pride!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood &amp; Sasha James &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Melanie King &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James &amp; Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>167</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>bi jon sims celebration</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. prelude</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i've been so excited for this project you guys have no idea! this is going to be a few short drabbles of different prides through jon's life, hopefully released over the next couple days, so i can think about maybe doing something for the next prompt. i hope you guys enjoy it!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">‘ it was the worst thing <em>ever, </em>‘ martin emphasizes, tapping his thumbnail against the cap of the water bottle georgie had handed him for emphasis. ‘ there i was, trying to - to say something about how important it was to be an ally, and how much it meant to me to come out here and support my friends and everything, and i was <em>still </em>just holding onto marcus’ hand, with big rainbow stripes on my cheeks. g-d, my hands must have been <em>miserably </em>sweaty. ‘ he sighs. ‘ honestly can’t blame him for breaking up with me after that. luckily it didn’t come up again, so at least there’s that. and i really think i wrote some of my best poetry after the breakup, so maybe i - maybe i should thank him, you know? ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">his smile verges on the edge of hysterical, which jon can’t really blame him for. he’s not sure how they verged onto this conversation, and without his . . . eye in the sky, so to speak, he can’t remember that easily. but it was . . . <em>nice, </em>stepping out of this world for a moment and just discussing something as benign and positive as pride. something in the world that had been. and . . . as martin insists, something that <em>will </em>be again.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">martin nudges melanie’s knee with his own, in the dim lighting. ‘ you said you had a pretty good story. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">melanie laughs, cane resting across her thighs, tapping it with one idle fingernail. jon wonders where she’s managed to get nail polish during the apocalypse. something in his chest swells with a quiet fondness for his friends when he thinks about how maybe melanie did them herself, and that’s why there’s glitter staining her cuticles and the skin around her hangnails, missing the mark a little bit. an act of defiance at the world’s end. or maybe georgie did them for her, hand held gently in her own.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">it’s not a bad thing not to know, he reflects. either case would be so true to who they <em>were, </em>as people or to each other. the not-knowing, in this case, can be alright.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ right, right. i <em>do. </em>so, i’m not actually sure anymore what chapter it was, honestly - if they were in town for our tiny pride event or if they’d just been passing through en route to london, you know? but i was . . . it was in uni, before that thing with charlie, so i think i’d’ve been about nineteen? twenty, if we’re pushing it? ‘ her fingertip traces over a small gouged-out scratch in the metal of her cane. <em>never been great at sitting still, especially down here. this place gives you the fucking creeps, </em>she’d said to jon, as they’d descended another steep staircase. ‘ but there was a contingent of <em>dykes on bikes </em>in town, right? ‘ she shakes her head, smile twisting up her face. ‘ g-d, i thought i was <em>so </em>cool at the time. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ only at the time? ‘ jon cuts in, unable to <em>completely </em>help himself, and melanie turns her head in the direction of his voice, narrowing her eyes good-naturedly.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ <em>anyway, </em>‘ she continues pointedly, resting her hand palm-up on georgie’s thigh idly, georgie quietly knitting their hands together, ‘ they were so much cooler than me. a lot of them were probably in their fifties or something. there was even one that looked like she could’ve been my grandmother, with all white hair and this beat-up old battle vest. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">( ‘ think that might’ve been gertrude? ‘ martin mutters out the corner of his mouth to jon, making him choke on the mouthful of water he’d been trying to swallow at the image. )</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">coughing fit aside, he’s content to lean on martin’s shoulder and nurse the water bottle that had been passed to him, listening to the animated way melanie talks, just as much to the sound of her voice, the way it rises and swells, as the story progresses ( ‘ - <em>and she said that they’d let me get away with not having a license, since operating within the law hasn’t really been one of their core values, you know? but that i had to know enough about how to handle myself on a bike to not tip arse-over-handlebars. i didn’t, mind you - </em>‘ )</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">melanie’s a good speaker. it’s not really a surprise to him, of course, he <em>has </em>watched some of her show, and you need to be good at spooling out a story to have one that successful. he just hasn’t ever really gotten the opportunity to hear her in a better moment. so many of the times they’ve had to talk, there’s been some kind of danger to the moment. a cage around them, a knife to their throats. he supposes, in a way, that this sort of brings it full circle. not in any way he could put into words, but . . . the threat is no longer so <em>targeted, </em>maybe. it’s simply the way the world works, now.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he finds himself gently slipping his hand over to martin to curl their hands together, in an echo of melanie’s in georgie’s, even as she lets go of georgie’s for a second to tap at her arm, where there’s an old faded scar, telling them about how she’d . . . <em>borrowed </em>a glorified moped from one of her worse neighbors, and adamantly tried to teach <em>herself </em>the ropes. all the while, georgie’s hand remains steady where it started, on melanie’s knee, shifting to be palm up so that when melanie wants to find it again, she can easily.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">it’s a little harder to focus on the story than he’d like. he’s so used to the supplication of information that’s become easy as breathing to him, the details of a story filling into his mind. there’s nothing now but his imagination to tell him what melanie would’ve looked like, perched in a sidecar with a giddy smile and a cast slung across her chest. he doesn’t know the names or faces of the women she’d ridden with, and he might just <em>not. </em>it’s a strange thing to try and adjust to.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ d’you have any good stories, jon? ‘ melanie asks, as she finishes regaling them, with the stipulation that she <em>had </em>finally learned to drive a bike properly, thank you very much, shifting her leg a little to kick jon in the knee, narrowly missing martin in the process, making him make a miffed little noise at that.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he blinks, taking a second to process the question and frowning thoughtfully.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ er . . . n-no, not really. i, ah . . . can’t say i’ve ever really <em>been </em>to pride. it’s just not something that i’ve . . . ‘ he waves one scarred hand vaguely, head ducking for a moment as he searches for the words that he wants. ‘ i certainly don’t have any stories like the rest of yours. i’ve never <em>really </em>been. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">georgie gives him an odd little look.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ are you not counting that time we went together, jon? ‘ she asks, brow furrowed slightly, her voice tipping up in a curious lilt. he remembers that time. wore the bracelet she got him there even after they’d broken up, until the string snapped and he lost half the plastic beads down a storm drain. just his luck, really.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he gives a helpless little shrug in return. ‘ er - yes? no? it’s . . . sort of complicated. i’ve never . . . i’ve <em>been, </em>in some ways, but i’ve never really participated. ‘ he smiles, an irony crossing his mind, tipping across his face. ‘ just. . . watching, i suppose. it’s . . . a bit of a long story. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ well, we’ve got time, ‘ melanie says, leaning forwards a little, hand still warm in georgie’s, before shrugging. ‘ or, i mean, we <em>don’t. </em>martin said time doesn’t really work here anymore. so i suppose we’ve got loads and loads of . . . not-time. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">jon attempts a little smile at that. his eyes flash from georgie and melanie’s curiosity, georgie’s a little more wary, melanie’s more inquisitive, to martin, who squeezes his hand once, gentle and supportive. the dim lighting seems to buzz a little brighter, even just for a second, as though the tunnels themselves have some interest in hearing him out.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">jon sighs, and begins to explain himself.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. i</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>first pride, age sixteen.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">oddly, the first thing that he remembers of that first pride is that his shoes had been too small.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">his grandmother had been meaning to get him a new pair for awhile now, but funds were tight sometimes, and it wasn’t her fault jon had hit his growth spurt with all the force of a wrecking ball. he usually enjoyed the walk from the train station to the library, knowing the route well enough that often he could trace his steps back with his nose buried in a book. he couldn’t this time, though. harder to focus with the bit of a limp he had to walk with, curling his toes up inside his shoes and placing his weight oddly with each step.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">usually, he’d avoid the crowds. they were strangely big today, people looking out over the street and gathered in clumps, and just the <em>thought </em>of walking through them, trying to press through with the sharp edges of shoulders that haven’t quite broadened to be proportional to his height yet, despite his best efforts. but every step he takes makes his legs ache with the effort, so he grits his teeth, cuts his losses, and curls his chin down a little tighter to his chest, shoulders drawn up to his ears as though that might be able to block out some of the noise. one way or another, he’s going to be uncomfortable. at least this way, it’ll be for less long.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he’s counted his steps before, the number of sidewalk cracks between the train station and the library, and it’s that he can take with a bit of comfort, at least. only fifty-five more. only thirty-six more, now. the rhythm of evenly laid pavement tiles is something of a comfort to him, even sometimes working well enough to drown out the sound of music being pumped through tinny speakers and the murmur of conversation cut through sometimes with shrill wolf whistles.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">thirty-five. three steps across a tile. that meant there were . . . three times thirty is ninety, plus three times five is fifteen. a hundred and five more steps. a hundred and four.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">there’s a cheer going up, and he stops where he’s walking, craning his neck in confusion to try and look into the street to see what’s happening. <em>why </em>there’s a crowd blocking his way back home. having to ride the crowded underground was bad enough, but all the hubbub today makes it so much - so much <em>more. </em>he can almost <em>feel </em>the pulses of that many people pressed together, like a never-ending, anxious thrumming.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he forces his feet to take two more steps forwards while he’s trying to get a look out at what’s going on. a hundred and two, a hundred and one.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he hadn’t expected there to be a parade, honestly. the colors were bright enough to make his head hurt, though that was just as likely the noise and the heat of the unusually bright sun for england. people in clusters and groups and floats, making their way down the street like a trail of soap bubbles, gleaming and incandescent, flags draped over shoulders and held in hands with elaborately painted nails. leather, across jackets and straps and skintight pants. <em>people, </em>in shades of laughter or raised-chin defiance, from a handful of people his age to two men who looked like they might be older than his grandfather, wrinkled hands folded together, looking at each other with a kind of warmth in their eyes that made his chest feel like a punch to the ribs, for reasons he couldn’t quite understand.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">a hundred and - he can’t tell, anymore, because instead of walking laterally, he’s shifted diagonally, a little bit more in the direction he needs to go, but closer to the edge of the crowd as well. not close enough to be in danger of getting choked out by the press of curious onlookers, but enough to just <em>see </em>a little better, entranced.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">( though he remembers the ache in his legs for a second, seeing someone in the parade in their wheelchair, rainbow ribbon woven around the spokes of the wheels, making him wonder not for the first time if the ache in walking that he’s dealt with for awhile now can’t be written off just as too-small shoes or as growing pains. his throat constricts a little at that, an odd kind of guilt. like he’s doing something wrong in the thought. too close to self-pity, maybe. )</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">there’s something dizzying about watching. like a kaleidoscope, all shifting colors.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he can’t look away.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">the colors and sounds pound behind his head enough to make his breathing short, brightly colored flags and banners trailing behind individuals or groups of people like feathers of birds of paradise, but he can’t quite look away, standing there in his too-tight shoes with his thin shoulders still curled in as far as possible to avoid being jostled too much by the crowd around him.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">it’s little things that catch his eye. someone’s hand-painted sign, and the fact that you can see a few pawprints in blue paint across one of the corners, as though their cat had walked over it in the interim. the way one young woman smiles, looking at her mother, with a shirt that says ‘I LOVE MY LESBIAN DAUGHTER’. ( it makes his chest feel that rib-punch ache again for a second, but for a different reason. ) the flowers on a man’s skirt, flowing past his knees, and the fact that they look like they might’ve been hand-sewn. the sheer amount of hair gel one man wears, and the sticky appearance it gives to his head. like it’s been glazed.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">the handful of balloons tied to the wrist of a boy who can’t be more than two years older than him, knocking gently together in the breeze. the white flash of his teeth in his face and the way he literally <em>throws </em>his head back and laughs at something one of his peers says to him, in a way jon thinks he’s never actually seen a person do, the sound clear and cutting through the crowd even despite all of the noise it makes.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">and then his heart feels like it stops dead, because he’s being looked <em>back </em>at.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">that’s - it’s <em>different, </em>from being the one doing the watching. he feels rooted to the spot, unable to just look away and continue walking back towards the train station ( a hundred and two? a hundred? steps back? maybe if he doubles back to the last tile he walked over, he can remember the corresponding number, and get back to the count. )</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">for a moment, there, he’s just caught in stasis, eyes locked with the older boy, feeling a bead of summer sweat beginning to crawl up his back, like an insect under his shirt. he can’t quite look away - from the bright gleam of sunlight reflecting off the metal bar through the boy’s nose, from the balloons whipping half a foot over his head, from the hearts drawn across his face in face paint, one of them on his cheekbone a little smudged, like he’d rubbed at one of them without knowing, from the place where a strand of hair sticks to the facepaint.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">and then the boy winks at him theatrically, and blows him a kiss.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">jon can’t - he doesn’t know what to do with that. he doesn’t know how to respond to it. or to the way that it feels once again like he’s been punched, like he can feel hairline cracks extending through his sternum, knocking the wind right out of him. he almost trips in his too-small shoes as he tries to awkwardly shift back behind the wall of the crowd, losing his step-count as he tries to lock his eyes down on the titles of the books he’d completely forgotten were in his arms, glasses almost sliding off the bridge of his nose from the sweat-sheen on his face, fogging up their lower half.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he feels like he can’t breathe, though he’s not sure if it’s the crowd choking him out, or if he still hasn’t gotten the wind knocked back into him.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">all he knows is that, even as he manages to recover some of his steps ( the street corner, twenty-six pavement squares away from the train station, three times twenty-five is seventy-five, plus three is seventy-eight ), he can hear the older boy’s laugh once again, still cutting through the noise of the crowd, and as he glances back over his shoulder, he can see a bright green balloon, drifting up into the air.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">it strikes him, as he stands still to watch it for a moment, that the end isn’t tied into a loop, like they were to the boy’s wrist. it’s been pulled until the ribbon breaks, in order to let it go. he wonders why.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">it feels like a secret, sitting heavy in his chest, when he finally makes it home, later than usual. even though his grandmother doesn’t ask why he missed his usual train ( <em>you’re old enough now to be responsible, jon </em>), even though she barely gives his shaking hands a second look, even though she doesn’t question why he has to sit on the floor for a solid ten minutes before finally being able to wiggle his shoes and socks off, flexing his feet in relief. even then, it feels like he has something caught in his throat.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he skips dinner. not really that unusual for him - his appetite comes and goes even on normal days, and though she sighs about it, all his grandmother says is that he’s going to have to have the leftovers for lunch tomorrow.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he sits in the tub until the hot water goes lukewarm, trying to let it bleed the ache out of his legs, and when he shuts his eyes, the swirling afterimages behind them look like the tail feathers of birds of paradise. like flags hanging off of shoulders.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">like balloons, in the wind.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">( when he finally tosses and turns himself to sleep that night, his last thought is a strange almost resentment, to the boy who winked at him, mixed with another feeling he doesn’t quite want to think about just yet. the resentment, though, is easy enough to put a name to. )</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">( he wishes he’d been able to watch a little longer. )</p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. ii</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>second pride, uni.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">‘ it’s alright. you should go join them, ‘ he says, leaning across the little café table to kiss georgie’s cheek, turning his hand palm-up to squeeze hers once, their knees still gently knocking together. ‘ i like watching, anyway. it’s . . . it’s a good view, from up here. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">and it really is. the thick pane of glass he leans against muffles the noise and heat of the crowd and the june day, but the people passing by underneath are clear as anything. and he doesn’t have to worry about being looked at in return. there’s a comfortable place to it, and he feels a guilty sort of contentment when georgie pecks his cheek in return and heads out to join the crowd for a moment, enjoying watching her from where he sits, hands around his cooling mug of coffee. she looks back over her shoulder up at him, squinting against the noonday sun, and gives him a little wave from the sidewalk, and he ducks his head in a smile, raising his hand to return the gesture.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">she’s swallowed into the crowd soon enough, though he can find her easily if he looks closely enough - though everything is all bright colors and moving forms, he’s got an uncanny gift for zeroing in on her, in her rainbow overalls and blue-purple tye-dyed shirt.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">( he wishes he’d managed to be a little bit more . . . loud, in his pride, in the same way she was. but face paint and glitter feel like hell on his skin, and so do so many other textures. but georgie had found a patch he’d sewn onto his jacket, blue and pink overlapping triangles. she’d offered to do the sewing for him, but he’d needed to make certain the threading was even. )</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">there’s a strange feeling of . . . contentment, almost, watching georgie make her way through the crowd. watching the crowd itself.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">even if he’s not participating, tentatively, for the first time, he feels something like a sense of . . . community. he doesn’t want them to see him, but warmth coils through his ribs, and he almost wills it outwards, to all the people a little better suited to marching than he is. there are other couples like him and georgie, men and women or women and women or men and men or both or neither dressed in pink-purple-blue, and something fierce curls in his chest and pricks behind his eyes, just for the feeling of it.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>i see you. i can see you. i can see you, and i’m like you. </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">it soars behind his sternum like a song, like the way a violin string tremors after the bow tugs across it, the note lingering in the tension, ringing in the air. his breath feels caught somewhere in his throat, and he finds himself almost leaning <em>against </em>the window, coffee long-forgotten. the people are too motile for him to focus on any one, but like before, there are the little things he can note.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">a bright yellow button on someone’s sleeve. a boy young enough that he’s still in braces, and the shy way he ducks his eyes away, but still carries his head high. someone has an honest-to-g-d <em>parrot </em>sitting on their shoulder. a guitar. a flash of leather. the faint thrum of pop music, not loud enough for him to make out what the song is, but enough to feel the bass in the place where his shoulder presses to the glass.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">and a fondness. for all these people he’s never met. <em>will </em>never meet.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>i can’t walk with you, but . . . thank you. for doing it for me. it’s important to watch you. </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he sits back in his chair for a moment, surprised at the <em>level </em>of the feeling building inside him. an aching kind of ecstasy, a loneliness and a community all at once, inherently tied into one another. a rising, and yet an unshakable feeling of <em>smallness. </em>and through it all, that throat-ache feeling of soreness.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>oh, </em>he realizes, almost ten minutes later, still just watching everyone passing in the street below. he hadn’t been able to put a word to what it is yet, this feeling, and he’d been mulling it over. but it just . . . clicks.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>that’s why it’s called pride. </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">——</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">tasha is a head taller than he and georgie both, with dark ginger curls that she’s indiscriminately shoved rainbow and venus-symbol hairpins into until it’s a heaping mess on her head, almost more freckle than person. she and georgie had only dated for a little while, but they were still good friends. <em>she’s one of the first friends i had when i started feeling like a person again, </em>she had told jon, and that alone was enough for jon to say georgie should accept her invite to pride this year.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ this is the admiral, ‘ jon explains, leaning against georgie’s shoulder as she flips her phone open, tapping through to a picture of two cats, pointing at the tiny orange one curled up on one of georgie’s mum’s throw pillows. ‘ he’s not nearly as big as cap’n is, but he’s - he’ll probably get up there, in time. ‘ he smiles to himself, his shoulder brushing georgie’s. ‘ if he’s going to grow up to outrank her, after all. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">( cap’n, as was shown in the next picture georgie taps through to, which was incidentally one they’d taken amidst their preparations to come here, one paw swatting out at a small handheld bi flag georgie had, was a large tortiseshell that was a <em>little </em>bit on the heavier size. her eyes made her look like she was perpetually being patient with you in the same way an adult might be with a child, just waiting calmly for you to be reasonable. it was part of the reason she’d earned her military stripes, georgie had always joked. )</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ the only military we can trust, i think, ‘ tasha says, dimples curving dents into the pink venus heart symbols painted on her cheeks. ‘ i’d rather our country in his hands than parliment’s any day. well. his paws. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ careful. he might grow up to be a secret tory, ‘ georgie replies, waggling her eyebrows, and tasha laughs easily, nudging her hip against georgie’s.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ with you two as drill sergeants? i seriously doubt it. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">it’s funny, jon thinks curiously to himself, even as tasha rests an arm over georgie’s shoulders to get a look at the picture she has of the admiral sneezing after getting into the glitter georgie had been saving for pride. he thought he might be jealous. of tasha, of what she had had with georgie. like it was competition, somehow. but all he feels is something like gratitude. connection, even. they had both loved the same person. tasha is part of why georgie is here today - a crossroads, sure, but in a more objective light, just one of the reasons georgie was at pride at all.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ high praise, ‘ he says gravely, pushing his glasses a little up the bridge of his nose to look at her across the phone screen.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ ask me no questions and i’ll tell you no lies, ‘ she quips, grinning again at him, before her eyebrows shoot up. ‘ wait, that reminds me! ‘ and she rummages in her bag, pulling out a crinkling paper - a set of temporary tattoos, in different symbols. ‘ gigi mentioned you didn’t like face paint, so i thought, y’know. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ <em>gigi? </em>‘ jon mouths to georgie in silent disbelief, his shoulder still resting against hers. calmly and deliberately, her face revealing nothing, she steps on his foot under the table.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ look, ‘ she says, as though nothing happened, holding up the back of her hand to show him the little rainbow pattern of stars there, as he tries not to hiss in pain <em>too </em>dramatically, mourning what was certainly the loss of at least two toes, ‘ they show up on dark skin pretty well. reckon it’s the glitter. ‘ her skin <em>is </em>darker than his by some measure, a warm brown so dark it reminds him of embers, sometimes. he considers them for a moment before nodding, slowly.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ i think that could work. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ grand! ‘ tasha says cheerily, stepping away from the table. ‘ i’ll grab you a wet cloth. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">as she steps away, georgie lets her arm wrap for a moment around jon’s waist. ‘ you doing alright? ‘ she asks quietly. in a voice that even just the coffeeshop drone drowns out. a moment just for the two of them. ‘ you didn’t mind missing it? ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ i didn’t miss it, ‘ he tells her, letting his head rest against her shoulder for a moment, letting out a quiet sigh of contentment as she runs one hand through his hair. ‘ i saw the whole thing. ‘ he lifts his head, if only for a moment, if only to look at her. to let her see how earnest he is. ‘ you were wonderful. i’m . . . ‘ he ducks his head a little in a laugh, almost self conscious. ‘ well, i’m - i’m <em>proud </em>of you. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ good, ‘ georgie says frankly, and he loves her for it, can’t help but lean forwards for a quick kiss at the smile that breaks across her round face. ‘ feel like that’s the <em>point, </em>isn’t it? of pride. ‘ her face softens a little, and her knee nudges his own. ‘ i’m proud of you too, you know? for coming here with me, and for trying. you knew it wouldn’t be your thing, but . . . you agreed to do what you could. and i’m . . . i’m glad to have you here, jon. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ i’m glad i chose to come, ‘ he says, and means it.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">it’s then that tasha returns to the table, wet napkin in hand. ‘ here, turn your face towards me? ‘ she looks at georgie for a moment as she uses a pair of nail scissors from her purse to cut out the specific flag she means to leave on jon’s face. ‘ g-d, gigi, do you ever end up cutting yourself on his cheekbones? that looks like a safety hazard if <em>i’ve</em> ever seen one. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">—</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ here. give me your hand? ‘ she says, later, that night, and he blinks at her, uncomprehending for a moment, before passing her his hand.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">she holds it gently. delicately. like you might touch the wings of a butterfly, not wanting to take their flight from them. her fingers are calm and unshaken as ever, and he can’t help but love that about her. ( can’t help but love that it’s become a <em>strength, </em>now. that she’s turned it into one. when they met, she couldn’t be shaken or moved by anything, trapped in a dull whirlwind. a truly immovable object to the unstoppable force of his constant anxious energy. it’s one way they’ve been good for each other. he’s had moments where his pace slows, and she’s been able to budge again, even if movement only comes in incremental steps. )</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">smoothing one hand down his fingers as though to straighten them out, with the other one, she reaches into her pocket, plucking out a kandi bracelet, pink and blue and purple plastic beads in two rows of neon colors, held together with elastic string, and slips it over his wrist. ‘ there you go, ‘ she says, nodding in approval. ‘ all decked out, now. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">it’s a little bit of a silly gesture. neither of them are decked out for pride, now. jon is in one of georgie’s t-shirts, which absolutely <em>swamps </em>him, having been big on her to begin with, the thing covered in cat hair. ( the admiral has taken an especial fondness to the thing. ) georgie is in sweats and shirtless. he’s always been glad she’s comfortable enough with herself around him.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">( <em>even if we don’t . . . if we </em>don’t, <em>i don’t mind that, </em>he’d told her, when she’d asked if it was okay with him. <em>i like your body, georgie. </em>she’d made some passing comment about how he really knew how to make a girl feel good about herself, but there was . . . a genuine gratitude, to her eyes. it’s a quiet kind of intimacy, this bareness without implication, but it’s <em>theirs. </em>)</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he holds up his new bracelet to the living room light, examining it. two rows of plastic beads. a simple alternating pattern. white elastic string. the knot looked like someone had just tied as many square knots as they could manage with the remaining ends of the string.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">it’s just his imagination and he knows it, but he thinks it smells like coffee.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he slips it over his wrist, holding it out in front of him as though displaying something for a boutique. georgie nods approvingly, and even cap’n stretches herself out luxioriously in his lap, as though voicing her own agreement.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he’s struck by a thought that leaves his mouth before he can stop it. ‘ sorry, ‘ he blurts. ‘ that i . . . couldn’t join you and tasha. not properly. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">georgie shakes her head. ‘ you did what you <em>could. </em>that’s nothing to be ashamed of. ‘ she folds her hand with jon’s, the hand that now has the bracelet hinging off the sharp jut of jon’s wrist joint, holding their clasped hands between them. jon’s hand pressed close to her heart, the bracelet along with us. ‘ you should be proud of yourself, jon. ‘ she leans to kiss his cheek. ‘ for so many reasons. ‘</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this is a little. a Lot. incoherent but. i love them your honor</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. iii</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>third pride, postgrad.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>alternating he/she pronouns for the drag queen jon talks to! for culture and pride prompts.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>it’s . . . g-d, he doesn’t know what time it is. he must in some part of his subconscious, he must have glanced up at the train station clock to know which train he was taking back to his tiny flat, but nothing <em> stuck. </em> morosely, he tells himself he should probably get a watch at some point, but he’s been saying that to himself for a little over two years now and <em> still </em>hasn’t managed it. having cell phones on hand doesn’t make it any easier to push himself to do so, either. though his is now drained, having died unceremoniously at some point when he was poring over papers for his thesis. </p><p> </p><p>the train car is mostly empty except for him, so he pulls out a cigarette. there’s negotiations starting up about instilling a blanket smoking ban on the underground. may as well get a few in while he still can. </p><p> </p><p>for the most part, he’s blessedly alone. the carriage doors are a little uneven in the way they close, one then the other, like imperfect animation. <em> offset blinking, </em>he thinks. though he can't call to mind the movie he'd seen that made him look up why they did that, brain still filled with the clutter of timecrunch research, thoughts in that saturated muddle, like a teabag left to oversteep. </p><p> </p><p>the tannoy crackles, words indistinct, like they're being chewed and spit out by the speaker system, and jon exhales, nicotine burning his throat, knees creaking under him as he sits. usually he'd check the seat, even sweep it over with a wet wipe, but it's too late-early for that, so he just resolves to not touch the plastic of the seat with his bare skin and leave it at that. </p><p> </p><p>the only other person to join him in the train car is dressed in motley, bright rainbows painted across his cheeks and glitter covering her skin, waving to his companions left behind on her platform as she steps on, blowing a kiss dramatically. they're all in bright clothes or leather as well, two leaning against each other in that delightfully cheerful kind of drunk where one can't stop giggling as she tries to sing along with her companion. jon can't even tell if they're meant to be singing the same song. </p><p> </p><p>he's a little thankful when the door shuts, cutting off the discordant tune, though he immediately feels a tiny bit guilty about it. it is june, after all, isn't it? maybe georgie was right. maybe he has gotten a little too cynical. but he can't help the tiny spiteful part of him that pipes up <em> well it's not our fault -, </em>and tries to swallow it down. </p><p> </p><p>the drag queen, of all the empty seats on the train, sits almost right next to him, leaving one seat between them still, as she undoes the zippers up the side of his teetering heels and slips her feet out of them, pulling them off and stretching out his toes in their stockings with a weary little sigh of relief, reaching into the side pocket of the big rainbow tote she has and pulling out a pair of simple ballet flats, slipping them on instead. he leans forwards a little, looking in the reflective surface of one of the train poles, and gently poking at her makeup where it flares in neon coronas around the brown of his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>she seems to notice jon's gaze a moment later, face turning towards him. ' you don't mind if i sit here, do i? ' it takes jon's brain, beleaguered as it is, a moment to realize he's meant to actually respond, which he does with a little clear of his throat and an aborted movement that can't decide whether it's meant to be a nod or a shake of the head. he's never been good at knowing how you're meant to answer questions of <em> do you mind?  </em></p><p> </p><p>he seems to get what jon means, at least, turning back to poking at her makeup.</p><p> </p><p>there's another few long minutes of silence wherein jon takes another long drag of his cigarette, gloomily concludes that it probably <em> is </em>rude to smoke when there's someone else here, and starts casting about for a place he can throw out the butt, before she turns to him. ' i thought you wouldn't, ' he says, without prompting. jon starts slightly, mouth dry. it's the nicotine. probably. it has to be the nicotine. </p><p> </p><p>she taps his own wrist, and jon glances at his in mirroring. </p><p> </p><p>there's still that ragged bracelet there, underneath the sleeve of his dark green jacket, peeking out in determined hues of pink-purple-blue. he can't help but feel something a little like . . . shame. why? it's not . . . he's not <em> ashamed </em>of what he is. </p><p> </p><p>but maybe . . . he worries she thinks he is. that he's not as brave as him. </p><p> </p><p>if that's the case, though, she doesn't give any inclination of it. instead, he reaches into her clear rainbow plastic tote bag, and pulls something out, offering it to him. ' here you go, love. i've still got a ton of extras. ' </p><p> </p><p>the rainbow foil packet crinkles gently under the fluorescent lights of the train car, jon blinking at it for a moment, his hand taking it without his brain quite catching up. ‘ i’m . . . ‘ he swallows, an odd sort of feeling rising in his throat. like he needs to defend himself. ‘ i’m not sure i need this. ‘ he hesitates before holding the condom back in her direction, but he waves it off with one hand. </p><p> </p><p>‘ keep it. just in case. ‘ she shrugs, an oddly elegant little motion that doesn’t seem to fit the dirty train car and the glitter clinging to his skin, the cheap gauzy fabric hanging off her arms in colorful layers. ‘ even if you don’t end up using it, there’s always the chance you can pass it on to someone else. it’ll be a little awkward, of course, but it’s worth it. ‘ there’s a sort of gravitas to his eyes when she looks at jon, and jon can’t help but tense for a second, hand dropping to his lap. ‘ it could save someone a whole lot of trouble, you know? ‘ </p><p> </p><p>jon looks down at the condom packet again and nods, throat tight. he understands the things going unsaid. for a moment, there’s no sound but the rattling of the train against the tracks, the tannoy silent for the moment. </p><p> </p><p>he studies his reflection in the rainbow wrapper, warped and colored in the striped patterns, and feels a dull kind of shame. the kind that never feels justifiable - looking at someone else’s suffering and feeling that ache that yours doesn’t compare. that you haven’t lived as much as you should. </p><p> </p><p>‘ i’ve never been with another man, ‘ he admits. he can’t be sure why he’s saying it, but the sanctuary of the rattling filthy floor and the smoke-stain windows feels like a place where honesty can live, if only for moments at a time. ‘ i . . . worry, sometimes. ‘ the foil packet rests on one of his thighs as he picks idly at the blue-purple-pink bracelet around his wrist. ‘ that because i’ve only dated women, it doesn’t . . . <em> count, </em> somehow. that i don’t have the experiences to make my place in the community - t-to make them <em> worth </em>something. ‘ </p><p> </p><p>his partner in the car’s eyes soften, and she rests a hand on his wrist, careful with his decorated nails so as not to nick jon’s skin. ‘ i know how that can feel. ‘ she sighs, leans back. ‘ even if i don’t look it. ‘ ( and it’s true. he <em> doesn’t </em> look like someone who would ever question how well they clicked in a space like pride, with her strong jaw and the layers of makeup and gauzy fabric draping his form, the intricate leather belt around her waist. ) ‘ it can be lonely, sometimes. worrying you’re not doing it <em> right. </em> i was in the closet all the way through uni, and everything i read or heard about made it sound like the <em> real </em> fairies were out and proud by that point in their lives. and i hadn’t been with another guy then either. felt like i might never get the chance. ‘ </p><p> </p><p>‘ so - what changed for you? ‘ jon asks, his curiosity overpowering anything else he might feel about the oddity of the situation. ( besides, there’s something almost ethereal about it. otherworldly, in the way the glitter catches the harsh flickering white of the fluorescents. ) </p><p> </p><p>she shrugs once again, this time more frank. ‘ i grew up, i guess. i spent all that time regretting not being out or not having a part in the community, and i realized that . . . i needed to engage, you know? sure, when i came out, i got a little bit of shit for it - from straight people, but also some judgement from other gay guys for waiting this long to come out and then flinging myself so wholly into it. like it was performative somehow, instead of me just finally choosing to get out of my shell. ‘ he sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and jon can see underneath the streaks of bright temporary dye, that she’s greying at the roots. jon can relate to that much, at least. ‘ i know it’s not really the same problem you have. but i get it, worrying your past means you’re not <em> right. </em>you still like men, don’t you? ‘</p><p> </p><p>jon blinks at how outright the question is, his mouth dry. he regrets the cigarette from a few moments ago as he licks chapped lips. ‘ i do, ‘ he says. ‘ but i feel like i haven’t . . . i don’t know, like i - i haven’t <em> proven </em> it somehow? or like it’s - like i’m meant to feel like it’s <em> less, </em> sometimes. the way i like men. because i’ve dated - want to <em> keep </em>dating, if, if the situation plays out, i mean - women, and because i’ve just . . . i’m not all that interested in sex. ‘ he attempts a weak little smile. ‘ though that could always just be the ssris. ‘ </p><p> </p><p>‘ you’ll figure it out, ‘ she says, nudging his knee with his own, leaving a streak of glitter over the side of his pants. ‘ you’ll find people who are right for you. my boyfriend’s bisexual too, you know? and i’ve never once doubted how much he loves me. when or if you find a special someone, whatever gender they are . . . they’ll trust in <em> you </em> and how you feel. ‘ </p><p> </p><p>jon nods slowly, looking to his knees once again, the condom packet still neat in his lap. there’s more he wants to say, but feels he can’t put into words. the expectation for him to be - what, flirty? promiscuous? even just plain <em> good with people </em> because he’s bisexual, and how that can make him feel too as though he’s doing it <em> wrong. </em> how much he’d loved georgie, and how he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to get a boyfriend - he’s so <em> busy, </em>lately. but somehow . . . somehow he feels like all of that goes understood. </p><p> </p><p>he picks up the condom packet again, looking at it critically for a second. he <em> does </em> have a point - the <em> just in case, </em> the possibility of passing it on to someone else. he wonders about her boyfriend, and the kind of bravery it must take to deal with awkward interactions like this easily, just on the possibility that it <em> could </em>save a life one day. still, though. </p><p> </p><p>‘ you’re right, ‘ jon says, ‘ about - about this, i mean, but - er - i don’t suppose you have any that <em> aren’t </em>glow in the dark, do you? ‘ </p><p> </p><p>she smiles at him, a bright thing that shows off the tiny gap between his front teeth, and shakes her plastic tote bag out invitingly in his direction. ‘ how about strawberry flavored? ‘ he suggests, with a tip to her grin that shows he’s <em> clearly </em>having a tiny bit of fun at jon’s expense now. jon can’t begrudge her that, though. </p><p> </p><p>‘ absolutely not. ‘ </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i kind of wanted a pride fic that like touches on sex on the community that shows its possible to have jon be ace but not like . . . revolted by sex or acting like a middle schooler at the mention of it bc he's. a grown adult. i think it's important to touch on! anyway, hope u enjoyed!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. iv</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>fourth pride, the archive.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>belatedly finishing off jon bi pride month!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">‘ you sure you don’t wanna join us, boss? ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">jon’s eyes ache from where he’s been peering at the bad handwriting for hours now, a dull throbbing coming from behind them. he’s been doing his best to transcribe these written statements into copies that are at least somewhat readable, but the fact that most people come here to talk about one of the more distressing events of their life, credible or not, really doesn’t lend <em>readability </em>to them. but <em>g-d, </em>there’s still so much to get through.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">it takes him a moment to register the question tim asked him, and he turns in his seat, looking up at his office doorway, tim leaning comfortably on the doorframe, sasha and martin standing by him. martin looks uncharacteristically nervous, arms crossed over the t-shirt he wears with the trans flag emblazoned across the front. it’s just a little bit too small for him, jon notes, the seams pinching at his arms. it’s not close to what he usually wears. ( why does that matter? he decides he just clearly doesn’t like it and leaves it at that. )</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">all three of them are decked out in pride regalia, sasha resting one hand comfortingly on martin’s shoulder at his apparent nervousness ( nervousness that makes jon want to snap at martin to pull it together, for some reason ), tim wearing an ung-dly bright colored tank top under a black mesh shirt, sasha’s hair not quite able to be contained by the lesbian scrunchie doing its valiant best to serve its purpose. dark kinky strands falling into her eyes.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ join you? ‘ he asks, when he realizes, <em>again, </em>that tim is patiently waiting for an answer from him. he frowns, thinking about all the work he still has to do, the way it makes his hands <em>itch </em>just to think about things like the way they opened up a jammed file cabinet door to realize the thing that had been jamming it was another folder stuffed full of miscellaneous papers, crammed into the back. they’d had to take apart the entire cabinet.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">they’d barely made a <em>dent </em>in the time they’d been here, and there was still so much to do, the statement sitting on his desk is half-transcribed, research has three or four new ones they just finished dealing with that jon’s going to have to check for authenticity and process, there’s still <em>no </em>real system of communication between the archives and the library and artifact storage to properly link statements to each other to any items - g-d, he’s going to be here until <em>he </em>keels over from a stroke at his desk, isn’t he?</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">sasha takes pity on him and offers an explanation. an obvious one, really, but his brain’s . . . it’s somewhere else, right now. ‘ pride, jon. we asked you about it last week? you said we could go. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">the confusion must still be clear on his face, hands still resting where they’d frozen, enmeshed in someone else’s trauma. like a deer caught in the proverbial headlights of an approaching social interaction. tim hesitates, some of the excited energy calming in him. like ripples fading out of a pond, the surface turning glassy again. he’s good at hiding disappointment, jon knows. recognizes the look from all the times tim would toss some book on smirke or the circus back onto an ever-growing pile at their pushed-together research desks, smiling and saying something about <em>well, maybe the next one. </em>it was hard to tell unless you knew him. jon . . . thinks he knows him, at the very least.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he nudges jon’s shoulder gently with his knuckles, nails painted bright neon purple. ‘ if you need us to stay after all, boss, that’s fine. right, guys? ‘ and he looks over his shoulder at martin and sasha. sasha nods, but martin doesn’t seem to realize the question was directed at him until the silence unfurls a little further, at which point he startles, flustered, pulling again at the bottom hem of his shirt as though trying to pull it away from his body. ‘ r-right, right, yeah! if you need us to stay, jon, we, uh, yeah, that sounds - ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he’s worse at hiding the disappointment than tim is.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">jon considers the three of them for a long moment. there’s <em>so </em>much work that needs to be done, and he can feel the assent bubbling up in his mouth; <em>yes </em>he needs the three of them to stay, there’s only so much he can do, in order to get this place cleared up they need more than just his pair of hands . . . his eyes can’t help but flick between the claustrophobic stacks, piled together like a hoarder’s dream, bins and folders and books strewn about and on shelves that are all mismatched, as though someone had gone to great trouble to buy the most mishmash assortment of filing containers they could from a thrift store. </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">it gnaws at him like a physical pain, how . . . <em>much </em>this place is.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">but he also looks at sasha, and the trans pride symbols tim helped her draw with sharpie on the back of her hands, nails also done in bright colors, the handful of bobby pins she worked into her hair to give the lesbian scrunchie she wears a fighting chance with her hair. the dangling earrings she wears, little mobiles made of empty estradiol bottles with the insides painstakingly painted pink and double venus symbols. at tim and the way he stands, casual but somehow larger-than-life, somehow making it clear just in the way he leans and the hand he uses to nudge martin’s shoulder fondly or hold up sasha’s compact for her, that he’s here for them. standing for them.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">martin. well, he doesn’t even <em>like </em>martin, and something like contempt wants to bleed cruelty into his mouth at the way martin’s shoulders can’t seem to stop themselves from curling inwards, even with the supportive weight of tim in front of him, his hands unable to stop trying to smooth down the hem of his shirt. really, it’s too small for him. he wonders if it’s even martin’s shirt at all.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he swallows down the vicious little snake of cruelty. just this once. even if it’s <em>martin, </em>he can have some sympathy for . . . trying to be that kind of honest.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he clears his throat, looks away. gives the three of them a brisk little shooing motion with one hand, adjusting his glasses on his face as he looks down at his papers again. ‘ go ahead. just don’t let it interfere with what time you come in on monday. ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ so . . . you aren’t coming? ‘ martin risks asking, and jon frowns at the statement he’s tried to read four times now, puzzled by that. he’d <em>said </em>they could go, didn’t he? so why was martin still disappointed?</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ no. i have to finish up here. ‘ his voice is curt, biting. maybe he didn’t fight the snake back quite as well as he thought he had.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">tim makes one last half-hearted attempt at inviting him, but it’s clear jon’s hackles have been raised, and better to let some sleeping dogs lie. with the door swinging behind them, tim yells out a promise that he’ll bring something back for jon, and the three of them are out of earshot by the time jon yells back some iteration of <em>don’t you dare. </em></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">well. he’ll have . . . <em>that </em>to look forwards to tomorrow, he supposes.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">the rest of the day is . . . <em>lonely </em>isn’t the right word. it’s not a <em>lonely </em>one. but there is . . . he can’t deny that there’s a certain something missing, without the sounds of life coming through his office door. with the lights in the rest of the archives off. without <em>martin </em>poking his head in seemingly on the hour to ask if jon wants a cup of tea.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he’s <em>used </em>to working on his own, of course, he tends to stay late, but this feels a little different, as the hours continue to stretch before him. to the point where he even ends up leaving early that night.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">well. early for <em>him, </em>at least. it’s still at least a ten hour shift.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">unusually, he’s not the first one to come in, on monday. his desk is littered in all sorts of . . . <em>memorabilia, </em>would be the generous term. he can almost <em>feel </em>tim’s grin through the door, and he makes <em>certain </em>to shut his office door behind him as he surveys the brightly colored pile. not wanting to give him the satisfaction. bastard. he glares daggers at an innocuous rainbow beer koozie with a brand slogan plastered across it in white foam letters. he knows. he just <em>knows </em>tim gave it to him specifically to hear jon rant later about the commodification of pride and corporations taking advantage of vulnerable populations.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he’s infinitely angrier because he knows just as well that he’s going to prove tim right. bastard.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">( sasha left a thoughtful takeaway, at least - a scribbled note to jon with a flyer about a bi-monthly group a rabbi was holding specifically about the overlap of jewish and lgbt history. the flyer doesn’t make it clear whether bi-monthly means twice a month or once every two months, but he supposes he can clarify that much later. in a different handwriting than sasha’s thin swoops, in a pen that was undoubtedly tim’s, someone has underlined every use of the word ‘bi’ in the flyer and drawn little winky faces next to them. )</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">the condoms ( all in various ridiculous shades, or glow in the dark, or somesuch ) he sweeps neatly into a ziploc bag. he can . . . donate them or something later. he does swap out the one he keeps in his wallet, though, with the least offensive he can find in the collection.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">just in case. he keeps that much in tradition. just in case. if not for you, then someone else.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he doesn’t like to <em>waste, </em>so the couple of pens go into the cup of them sitting on his desk by his laptop. even if some of them just brazenly have fast-food chains emblazoned across the side. the stress ball goes into some drawer of his desk. better than throwing it out, but at least it’s out of his way for right now and not something else that takes up space in the plane of his focus. was a stress ball meant to make you <em>more </em>stressed? that seems a little counterintuitive. but somehow just the presence of an object that doesn’t <em>fit </em>into his routine is . . . agitating.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he’s overthinking. he exhales slowly, folds up sasha’s note and the flyer and slips it into his clear laptop cover, so he’ll be sure to have it later.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">it’s only then that he notices something else left on his desk - it had just <em>fit </em>well enough with the way his office so typically is that he hadn’t taken note of it at first.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">a mug of tea.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">doubtless from <em>martin. </em>it’s the same cheap brand that the breakroom supplies - the rest of them tend to bring their own. but even jon will admit martin somehow has a gift for making the cheap swill a surprisingly good cup of tea.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">the mug is new, though. looks secondhand, maybe, some of the paint a little chipped, a tiny nick on the top of the handle. it’s a simple thing, round and comfortable, with a paisely pattern in blue, purple, and pink. ( later, when he finishes the tea and goes to rinse it out, he’ll notice the bottom of the inside has a message painted on it - <em>you need another cuppa bi now! </em>- in handwriting that is far too neat to be martin’s. )</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">he’s not sure why, but he’s heading out into the archives proper, mug cradled in his hands. it is still a pretty early morning, and he could use the caffeine. ‘ martin? ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">martin jumps at his desk like he’s been shot for a moment, hurriedly shutting whatever book he’d been reading as though on impulse, even though it seems to legitimately be a relevant one to some of the statements jon’s asked him to look through recently. again jon finds himself begrudgingly relating, having gotten in trouble one too many times for reading under his desk in secondary school. ‘ jon! i, uh - yes! can i . . . can i help you? ‘</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">his eyes seem to be darting between jon’s face, the mug and the floor, as though jon had <em>ambushed</em> him or something. honestly.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ the mug, ‘ jon starts, the words feeling like raw flour in his mouth, hard to swallow or get out one way or another.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">martin looks so very much like he wants to be wringing his hands, cutting jon off. ‘ er, if you don’t - i understand if that’s a bit much, o-or if you, if you aren’t! tim s- someone said that that was, and i didn’t . . . want to be the only one not leaving you something, but i, i can take it back if you like? it’s just that you - you didn’t have your own in the breakroom yet, and . . . ‘ he trails off, looking at the way jon is staring at him, eyebrow raised.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">‘ i wanted to say thank you, ‘ jon says, once martin has let the end of the nervous ramble die off. he makes his voice as arch as possible.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">something squirms in his stomach at the surprised smile martin gives at that. at how <em>genuine </em>it is. and he turns back to his office. there is a lot still to be done, after all, in this wretched <em>mess </em>of an archive. but.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">but.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">there’s a quiet warmth he’ll try to allude to the massive swig of hot tea he takes just then, filling his chest. laryngopharyngeal burn is an explanation that sits better in a professional environment than the alternative. the mug <em>fits </em>in the balance of his desk, making the space, dare he say, seem almost <em>comfortable </em>for a moment.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">later, when sasha asks him, he’ll agree to head out to lunch with the three of them. he will sound disgruntled about it.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">it will much less begrudging than he tries to make it sound. and when that time comes . . . there’s a part of him that thinks they know as much. there may even be a part of him that could be comfortable with that, some day. the same part that finally does what he had been meaning to since friday, and compliments the earrings sasha had been wearing. or the same part that <em>does </em>end up snapping and going off on a tangent in the pub about the commercialization of activism once a topic has become <em>just </em>uncontroversial enough to stir profits, and that part that <em>notices </em>tim’s delighted look at his rabid word dump, thank you very much.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">( he missed that mug, when he came out of his coma. melanie had taken it, given it to georgie. she had said that she assumed it either belonged to him or tim, and either way, well . . . at the time it hadn’t seemed like either of them would be needing it again. jon supposes that’s fair, but he can’t help feeling a little petulant about it. )</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>pride </em>can be a small thing, after all. inextricably tied to <em>community. </em></p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>and so it ends. i'm considering doing a tiny little epilogue, but most likely this is going to be where we end it. thank you to everyone who read this or participated in bi jon month. we got a ton of horrible backlash for this event, but it still meant - and means - a lot to me, and i love every one of you. happy pride to you all.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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